by Farahad Zama
“After a moment’s silence, Swaroop said, ‘How can they tell you? They are decent people and they feel ashamed even to bring matters like this to their lips. They only want to rent their flat to people of good character. Not to loose women like you.’ She looked straight at Pari.
“I was livid. ‘How dare you say that about my niece? Maybe you so-called high-class ladies talk like that at your kitty parties or whatever it is you call your get-togethers. We think a hundred times before saying a word against a woman’s character. Anyway, what is it to you? You are not even a flat-owner here, you are just a tenant.’
“‘It is everybody’s responsibility to make sure that bad behaviour is driven out of the neighbourhood, not just the landlord’s,’ Swaroop said. ‘You will, of course, speak out in her favour because you want to protect your son’s reputation.’ She pointed a finger at Pari. ‘Did you not have a secret tête-à-tête with Mrs Ali’s son? Don’t deny it, because I saw you both in each other’s arms.’
“‘I…’ said Pari. She was speechless and I had the horrible feeling that Swaroop, the witch, was speaking the truth. That much was clear from Paris eyes.
“Swaroop hadn’t finished. ‘And the boy that your son brought from the village – I don’t believe that he is some best friend’s son. He looks like a servant from the middle of nowhere. Are you sure that your son hasn’t had a tumble with some rustic girl? He disappears off to the villages often enough…’
“That was the problem with reputations, I thought. Once one allowed even a tiny bit of mud to stick, every action becomes suspect. Suspicion kills faith, the Prophet had said and, of course, he had been right.
“I turned to the landlord and his wife. ‘Have you called me into your house to insult me? If you don’t want to rent your flat to us, that’s your privilege, even though you are breaking your promise. But then, have the courage to just say so, rather than insult invited guests under your own roof. That is not seemly.’
“Pari and I swept out of the flat without a backward glance.”
Mrs Ali looked at her son, sitting on the sofa and said to him, “How could you do this, Rehman? What were you thinking?” Words failed her and she shook her head.
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” said Rehman. “There is nothing going on between Pari and me; that woman was talking rubbish.”
“I know there is nothing going on between you and Pari. But I could also see the truth of that woman’s accusation in Pari’s face. You have to observe proprieties – this is not America or England where men and women can go round hugging each other in public. No person has ever had the chance to say one word against me until now. I had to sit there and listen to that two-bit woman spouting off.” Mrs Ali’s voice dropped into a low growl that the men could barely catch. “How dare she cast a slur on me?” Then she looked straight at Rehman and her voice rose again. “There is no use in pointing fingers at outsiders if our own family members are foolish enough to give people a chance to talk.”
Before Rehman could utter a word, his father said, “What a stupid thing to do, Rehman. We are responsible for Pari. If news of this gets back to Mrs Bilqis, what will happen? This is the one chance for Pari’s happiness and you are jeopardising it.”
Rehman was quite used to his father jumping to conclusions regarding his actions, but he was hurt by his mother’s words. She had always supported him, even when she couldn’t go against his father.
“Ammi,” he said. “Please listen to me. Pari and I haven’t done anything to be ashamed of.”
“Did you or did you not go on the roof terrace with Pari?” she asked.
“Yes, but – ”
“But nothing, Rehman,” interrupted Mrs Ali. “Don’t you see that is enough to set tongues wagging? We live in a small town and reputation is everything. If our lives are comfortable and easygoing, it is because everybody around respects us and comes to our aid if we ever need anything. Once we lose that, life here can be hell.”
“Yes,” said Mr Ali. “Aruna was just talking about the same thing the other day. The only reason she is able to work in our house is because Ramanujam’s father trusts us and believes that we are good people. If tongues start wagging, he will not allow his daughter-in-law to come here every day. Everything we have achieved can disappear in a puff of smoke if ugly rumours start to fly around.”
“You are both being ridiculous,” said Rehman. “You are paying far too much attention to silly hearsay and not listening to me.” He turned to his mother. “Have you asked Pari?”
“I did not have to ask her,” said Mrs Ali. “Her face showed the truth of the gossip very clearly. She looked so shocked that I doubt if she will ever come back here again.”
“What?” said Rehman. “And are you just going to leave it like that? Let us go and bring her back, show her that she is welcome here as always.”
“We can try, but I doubt if she will come. If she does, people will say that the rumours are indeed true, and her reputation will be in tatters. Have you ever seen ducks and hens in a shower? The rain is the same, but while the ducks can completely ignore the water, the hens get wet and stand there miserably with their feathers dripping and their heads tucked into their chests. It is exactly like that with you and Pari. A man can disregard talk like this, but a woman simply cannot.”
“But…” said Rehman. “How is she going to manage if she doesn’t accept our help? How will she look after Vasu and find another job?”
“You should have thought of that before, Rehman,” said Mr Ali. “Why start worrying about it now?”
“Fine,” snapped Rehman. “If you think it has to be a choice between me and Pari, then I will move out. She needs your help more than I do. The friend I just met wants to rent out a room in his flat and I’ll go there.” He stood up, took out his mobile phone and started dialling.
Less than half an hour later, he was dragging a suitcase on to the verandah. His father had a stony expression on his face, but his mother looked wretched.
“Right, I am off,” he said.
His mother held out a hand as if to stop him but his father said, “Let him go. What’s the point of a boy who doesn’t even understand the damage his behaviour is causing.”
“Please…not again,” said Mrs Ali. “I thought you two had gone past fights like these. There must be some other solution.”
Rehman shook his head. “For now there is no other way out. But don’t worry so much, ammi. I am off to Vasu’s village with Dilawar tomorrow, anyway. And Pari will get married to him soon and then all these silly rumours will die a natural death.”
Mrs Ali did not quite smile, but her face lightened up. “All right,” she said. “Take care of yourself. I will talk to Pari and make sure she doesn’t feel abandoned.”
♦
Dilawar shook his head. “How can you have so much confidence? Powerful people have preyed upon peasants since ancient times. This kind of exploitation is normal human behaviour. Isn’t it presumptuous to think that one man like you can change it?”
Rehman said, “It probably is conceited of me…All I can say is, if you don’t even leave the house for fear of the journey, how will you ever reach your destination? And I am not alone, you know. I have been in touch with a few non-governmental organisations. Most of them don’t want to get involved because they prefer to deal with problems like Aids or, nowadays, green issues, for which they can get funding from abroad. But a couple have shown an interest.”
It was just after four in the afternoon and the pair of them were walking down a narrow lane in the village to the now-abandoned hut in which Vasu and his grandfather had once lived.
Vasu’s grandfather, Mr Naidu, had cultivated a small field that had been in his family for generations. Rice had been his main crop, though in the borders he had grown gongura – red spinach – and vegetables like brinjals and okra to supplement his income. Tired of living from harvest to harvest and worried about how to provide for Vasu’s future when he
was growing weaker each year, Mr Naidu had signed a contract with an agricultural company to grow cotton. The agreement was that the company would provide special genetically modified seeds, fertilizer and technical assistance. In return, Mr Naidu would sell all his cotton to the company, hoping that this would fetch him more money than the rice he normally grew.
Over the years, Mr Naidu had lost many crops – mostly due to the baking sun that shrivelled all plant life when the monsoon rains failed. Ironically, the cotton failed because it rained too much at the wrong time. The field had become waterlogged and the buds bearing the soft white fibre had rotted. The company had then told Mr Naidu that he still had to pay them for the seeds and other supplies. When he protested that he had no money to do so, they suggested that he sell off the land and had themselves taken a lien on it. Unable to contemplate the loss of his beloved land, Mr Naidu had committed suicide.
“It is a big problem,” admitted Rehman. “And I think the company has been applying pressure to the farmers since I last came here. Nobody wants to talk about the contracts any more. But we cannot give up. The point is that the two signatories to the contract are unequal and all the risk is being pushed on to weaker party – the farmer. That needs to be changed.”
“I hear what you are saying,” Dilawar said. “But it feels so hopeless. There are so many farmers and, from what I gather from the few I talked to, they are beset by a number of problems, not just these unfair contracts. Who cares about these little people? Certainly not the government, especially when faced with rich businesses with cash to spare for lobbying.”
“We have to make them care,” said Rehman.
Dilawar was reminded of Shaan and his insistence on going to Delhi to attend the court case, when everybody knew that the anti-homosexuality law was a hundred and fifty years old and that there was no support for its repeal in a conservative and religious country like India. What enabled men like Rehman and Shaan to fight against impossible odds? Why didn’t they see themselves as Don Quixotes, pointlessly tilting their lances at windmills?
Dilawar’s own attitude was that some things could not be changed and just had to be endured. His grandfather had been a man like his friends. When Dilawar’s father had been brought home from hospital, bedridden and unable to move, his grandfather had gone from doctors to quacks to so-called holy men. There was nothing wrong with that, of course, but his grandfather had never given up. The old man just went on for years and years. It was only when he had finally died that his mother had obtained a measure of peace by being allowed to accept her husband’s fate. Dilawar remembered being shocked by just how much of their family wealth had been wasted on his father’s treatments. Sometimes impossible odds were just that – impossible. Struggling against them got one nowhere. His own policy was clear: if at first you don’t succeed, try again. If you still fail, give up. There’s no point in being a bloody fool about it.
He did not notice a thin, winged insect land on the side of his exposed neck.
“Oww!” said Dilawar, scratching the bite, thoughts about his father, and the nature of men who never gave up, temporarily interrupted. “What were we talking about?”
“Farmers…and fairness,” said Rehman.
“Yes,” said Dilawar. “When I was in the town, it all sounded so plausible. We would go into the village, find the men who have been cheated, get their evidence and start building a campaign for justice. I thought that with my degree in law and my experience in running marketing programmes, I would be able to help you. But now I can see the reality. This is not a task for one or two men.”
“So you think we should not even attempt it?” said Rehman, disappointed.
“No, I am not saying that…Well…actually…damn it, you are right. That is what I am saying, I suppose.”
Dilawar felt miserable. He was letting down his old classmate, just as he had his wonderful Shaan. What a pain in the backside these men on a mission were. Why couldn’t he have fallen in love with a nice, quiet boy who wouldn’t rock the boat?
He kicked irritably at the dark shell of a palm fruit on the road. Then he looked at his soft-leather moccasins and despaired to see them thickly caked with mud. They had been especially hand-sewn for him by Mr Chang, the elderly Chinese shoemaker in Bandra, and had cost him enough to keep any of the households in this village in comfort for two or three months. The shoes were ruined – he doubted whether they would ever be wearable again. He had better not show these shoes to Mr Chang. The master cobbler had a temper and he would probably refuse to make him another pair.
Rehman stopped to greet an old woman. Dilawar stood a little distance away, gazing around at the small houses with their whitewashed walls red with dust to waist height. A couple of buffaloes ambled along – one of them using the road as a latrine and the other eating some paper lying on the ground. It was all so still that it took him a moment to realise that his ears had been straining for the sound of an engine or a motor, a burst of music or some other sign of civilisation, of people and culture. The silence felt unnatural to him.
“Are there any creature comforts in this hut we are going to?” Dilawar asked when Rehman rejoined him.
“Yes, I’ve organised a table fan just for you. You’ll be fine.”
Fifteen
The lights in the guest house looked welcoming through the windows, but the whiskered man who answered the door wasn’t so hospitable. He shook his head.
“Sorry, sirs. I cannot give you a room without an official letter.”
He was thin and stooped, and his hair grew in all directions, like weeds on government land.
“I can get the letter but it is too late now,” said Dilawar. “We just want to stay one night. We will be gone early tomorrow and nobody will be the wiser.”
Earlier in the day they had reached Mr Naidu’s hut, but numberless mosquitoes had come out of their hiding places with the dusk and driven them out. Apparently, Maoists had blown up a transformer and there was no power in the village, rendering useless the fan that Rehman had borrowed. Finally, on Mr Naidu’s cousin’s advice, they had made their way to the government guest house on the edge of the nearby market town.
Rehman bit his lip. He didn’t mind going back to the village even though the mosquito swarm had been pretty thick. But he could see the angry lesions on all exposed areas of Dilawar’s skin and felt sorry for him. Besides, he didn’t want to face Pari and tell her that he was responsible for her fiancé turning into Elephant Man.
The lights in the guest house shone bright. Power wasn’t a problem here. Dilawar took out a fifty-rupee note from his pocket and slipped it to the caretaker.
“It’s just for one night. I’ll give you some more before we leave tomorrow.”
The caretaker still appeared doubtful. Rehman looked away, embarrassed, unwilling to be party to bribing a government employee. Hearing footsteps, he saw a couple walk on to the verandah from outside and recognised them with surprise.
“Hello.”
“Namaskaaram,” said Aruna.
Ramanujam and Rehman smiled and nodded to each other. “My friend and I are trying to get a room for the night,” Rehman said.
“Do you know these people, sir?” asked the caretaker to Ramanujam.
“Yes, these are our people only,” said Ramanujam, indicating that he knew them quite well.
“Why didn’t you say so in the first place, sir?” the whiskered man said to Dilawar. “The gentleman and lady have come with the highest recommendation and any friend of theirs is welcome to stay here.” He moved back from the door, allowing them entrance.
Dilawar leaned towards Rehman and whispered, “He has not returned my money though.” Rehman laughed and introduced Dilawar to the couple.
The caretaker led Rehman and Dilawar into a basic, but clean, room, dominated by a large double bed formed by jamming two single beds together and veiled by a nylon mosquito net. There was an en suite bathroom and a fan hung from the ceiling. Dilawar looked around in s
atisfaction.
“We’ll be safe here tonight,” he said. He turned to the caretaker. “Where is my room?” he asked.
“Sorry, sir. This is the only room available. This place has just two bedrooms and the other one is being used by the doctor gentleman and his wife.”
Dilawar stared glumly at the net-caged bed for several seconds, then turned to Rehman. “What do we do?”
Rehman shrugged. “It’s no big deal. We can share the bed. It looks wide enough.”
Dilawar laughed nervously. “Do you know what one strawberry said to the other?”
Rehman shook his head.
“We wouldn’t be in this jam today if we hadn’t been in the same bed.”
Rehman smiled and Dilawar felt a bit foolish. He wished it was Shaan who was here. He would have appreciated the joke a lot more.
Half an hour later, the four of them were sitting at the dining table in the living room eating rice, dhal and an indeterminate vegetable curry cooked by the caretaker’s niece. Aruna had brought a bottle of home-made mango pickle, which she shared with Rehman and Dilawar, making the food a little less boring.
Ramanujam told them about the land that they had purchased from the farmer. Aruna mentioned that there was a lake near by that was worth a visit, even though it was now much shrunk because it was summer. When Dilawar found out that the couple had cancelled their holiday to come here, he started talking to Aruna about Mumbai – the crowds, the buildings, the local trains, the clothes that the Goan secretaries wore, about Fashion Street and Chor Bazaar, a market for second-hand items, reputedly used by burglars to fence their ill-gotten goods. He did not mention Mumbai’s most popular tourist attraction, the Gateway of India.
After dinner, they moved to the settees and switched on the television for the news. Aruna was reminded of her parents’ house. This was what her father did too – watch the news straight after the meal. Having cleared the table, the caretaker announced that he was retiring for the night and to knock on the door to his room if they needed anything.
